Playground Rules
by sushisama
Summary: Bakura becomes restless after years of traveling on his own, and heads to Egypt to pick up a source of entertainment. First thiefshipping fic, fluuuuuuffy.


I own nothing, just writing up some thiefship fluff.

::*~~*::

Bakura had thought he would always want a quiet life, a reward for all he had gone through in his former life as well as reincarnation. A break from thieving, murder, and devising evil schemes. Maybe take a vacation on the Seine, or relax in a Finnish sauna, or even get rained on in London while admiring the queen's jewels.

But two years after his freedom from the ring and earning his own body as a sort of 'sorry-your-life-was-shit-hope-this-makes-up-for-i t' gift from the gods, life was amazingly dull. Beyond belief, how is the world so boring, thinking about offing himself if he didn't find real entertainment, dull.

Maybe he was too used to excitement, even if it was life-threatening at times. He was also probably too accustomed to being a criminal for his own good. For the most part, he had been, well, better than before. He still picked pockets and lifted things from markets, but it wasn't on the scale as when he was the thief king. He kept his profile low, so low, that the only person who knew he was still wondering about was his former landlord.

But, still, life had become far too humdrum to be anywhere near acceptable.

It was with this desperate need for some action that led him to Egypt on a wild hunch that maybe, just maybe, he could find the one person that had ever brought him true entertainment (and not in the manic, revenge or destroying the world way). It was dumb, he wasn't really expecting anything from it, but he had nothing better to do. Boredom and curiosity.

It certainly had nothing to do with being littlest bit lonely, though he knew that's what Ryou had assumed when he mentioned his trip on one of the occasions he kept up with the boy.

Bakura had gone to the museum, the one in Cairo that the female Ishtar still curated at, the only idea he came up with, seeing as Ryou, his only contact with anyone from that time, didn't know much more. He find an exhibit to the pharaoh, that wretched man, and though his eye twitched at it, he still investigated it. He was looking over the 'giant rock', lost in the hieroglyphs, he did not immediately hear the soft footsteps that approached him. Nor did he move much when the form settled to the right of him, standing within arm's reach.

He merely smirked when he glanced out of the corner of his eyes, his gaze lingering a moment on the tan boy. No, not boy... Man. Marik Ishtar was now a man. And for some reason, Bakura could not help the smile at seeing him grown up.

The Egyptian had not changed much, other than growing a few inches (still shorter than he, he noted with a grin), and his face had lost some its roundness to softened angles. His lavender eyes were still sharp, as far as he could tell, as pointed at the some rock as they were. His skin was still adorned with gold jewelry, round his neck and wrists. And, of course, that ridiculous midriff ensemble, except the fabric had some pattern to it now.

"Does it still take you three hours to get ready in the morning?" he asked mockingly, his chestnut eyes still ahead of him.

"And how long does it take you to tame that mane, fluffy?" was the immediate response.

Bakura sneered a little, more at the thick strands that fell along his shoulders than at the stab to his vanity. When he was given the new body, it was a combination of his former life and Ryou's. His eyes stayed dark, but his hair was now a strange mix of its darker hue, giving it a strange off-white base. Though his bangs weren't as puffy as before, it was the thick in the back and just as long. For some reason, as annoying as it was, he just couldn't bring himself to cut it.

But it certainly had nothing to do with the time Marik paid its length a compliment, running his hand through the strands in a moment Bakura was sure only he was uncomfortable with back in Battle City.

"Ishizu thought you were Ryou," Marik went on, his attention more on Bakura now than the rock. "But she was confused by this." He reached out, running a quick finger under Bakura's eye, tracing the scar left as a reminder of his past life.

The pale man allowed the touch, despite his skin bristling at letting someone so close. Had the hand lingered longer, he probably would have snapped his wrist. He tells himself this, ignoring how warm and soft those fingers are.

"But you came anyway," he says quickly, swapping at the other's hand.

Marik withdrew his hand, settling to cross his arms in front of his chest. "I hazarded a guess. I was already here anyway, so it wasn't like it was out of the way." The Egyptian youth shrugged. "It was a curiosity."

"And now that your curiosity is satiated?" Bakura inquired, his eyes focused on his former partner.

Marik tapped his chin in thought, not giving him a glance as he seemed to contemplate the question. "I guess I'll be on my way." Bakura could make out his vicious grin on his lips, turning slightly toward the exit of the hall.

Bakura crossed his arms with a shrug, not giving the youth a second look as he closed his eyes with a smirk. "If that suits you," he replied rather nonchalantly. "I just happened to be in town, I'll be flying out in the morning."

Marik looked back at him, his look even and uninterested, but when Bakura turned to face him, his lavender eyes betrayed him. "You're already leaving?"

Bakura didn't even hide his grin. "What, expecting me to stay longer?"

Marik's eyes narrowed a bit. He huffed his indignation, once more refusing to look at Bakura. "Who cares if you stay or go?"

"I wouldn't think it much matter to you anyway," Bakura commented gruffly.

Marik actually had the mind to look abashed by the statement. "Are you sore about it, then?"

"I've had time to be sore about it." He sighed at the thought. "But I'm bored of being vindictive, so consider yourself outside of my wrath. Doesn't exactly get you off the hook, though, for giving away my ring." The look he gave was a pointed one, and it carried all the weight his remaining anger could muster.

Marik had a mix of apprehension and slight fury on his features as he returned Bakura's gaze. "I did what I thought was necessary." He kept his eyes locked on the dark ones, offering no more explanation or apology.

Bakura only gave him another moment before he turned away, a low growl on his lips. "You still bloody owe me."

"And what the fuck are you expecting from me?"

The pale man stifled a chuckle at the effeminate pose Marik had taken, a hand on his hip and slightly bent forward.

"I expect nothing from you, Ishtar," Bakura retorted, keeping his voice as even as he could. "Doesn't mean I don't feel owed my due." He gave the stone tablet one more glance before turning a foot to the door. "Your sister has terrible taste in decor. The Louvre should prove to be more interesting."

Marik just blinked after him. "That's it?"

"That's it," he agreed. He stalked out of the gallery, throwing a wave over his shoulder. He said nothing else to the Egyptian as he wandered through the museum toward the exit. He didn't even give a backward glance, but a smirk graced his lips nonetheless.

Moments later, only feet outside the entrance, Bakura stood, taking a long drag off a cigarette. He was counting down in his head, giving it only a moment longer.

He only grinned when the door flew open and hurried footsteps joined him at the bottom of the steps. He didn't even have to open his eyes to know who it was coming to stand in front of him.

"I want to try a real crêpe."

"Is that so?" Bakura asked uninterestedly.

"And I want to see the Eiffel Tower," the Egyptian went on.

The white-haired man sniggered a bit at that. "And why are you telling me this?"

"You wouldn't have mentioned where you were going so specifically if you didn't want my interest."

At this, Bakura opened his eyes slowly, fixing his gaze on the Egyptian who was just glaring at him, giving him a very knowing look. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, Bakura keeping his emotions hidden while Marik just grinned.

After one last inhale, Bakura dropped the cigarette and stomped out the butt with the heel of his boot. He again turned from the Egyptian, but his walk was steady as Marik fell into step next to him.

"So, when did you say we were leaving?"

**::*~~*::**

Bakura would never admit it out loud, but Paris had been substantially more interesting than he thought it would be when Marik was with him. The youth was fascinated by everything, from every last painting in the Louvre, to the very last bite of food, there was nothing he didn't find enjoyment in. It was definitely a change to his cynical side, and despite their constant bickering, he found it almost... refreshing to hear the other perspective.

That wasn't to say Marik wasn't annoying him quite often. He was still the brat he had been when Bakura first met him, just with a different approach. Where before he expected his will to be followed because of the Millennium Rod, he must have been tamed of this expectation, because now he used charm to try and persuade his white-haired friend. And if Bakura was asked, he would just blame it on not wanting to deal with the obnoxious whining Marik would give when he wanted something.

Never that he couldn't handle the puppy eyes from a nineteen year old boy (which affectively earned him the nickname pup, to which Marik started calling him kitty).

The arrangements for the hotel had been made before Marik was with him, so he had to deal with the Egyptian complaining about the one bed. Bakura had felt no need to switch the rooms, not wanting to draw any attention to himself for the two week stay he had planned. The whole thing was paid for on a stolen expenses credit card from a business man, the room a moderate cost that would get lost in other expenses until proper bookkeeping showed it. By then, Bakura planned to move on to one of his many other destinations with the aide of someone else's money.

But next time, he would book two beds, if only to not to hear Marik shouting and calling dibs on the bed. When Bakura argued that he had paid, he should get it, Marik just retorted that he was essentially his guest, so it should be him that was comfortable. Not wanting to argue further (and nothing to do with those puppy eyes), Bakura gave him the bed, collapsing on the couch in exhaustion and jet lag.

Neither slept well that night. Bakura couldn't get comfortable on the couch, and he could hear Marik tossing and turning throughout, little whimpers coming from him as the night went on. With each murmur, Bakura rolled over, the noises irritating and keeping him awake. He didn't bring it up in the morning, though, opting to start a conversation about what they'd be doing for the day.

Marik said nothing, just agreeing. He was most agreeable in the mornings, too lost in his own thoughts to make any real arguments. Bakura found it disturbing, not having something to bicker about, but everything went back to normal the moment the Egyptian had food in him.

The next night, Bakura had fallen asleep to the television, some excuse for a horror movie on the screen, one he barely understood due to his limited knowledge of French (Marik came most useful here, for the boy was actually a natural linguist, and acted as translator more often than not). When he woke up a few hours later to whatever program was after the film, he reached out for the remote, when something caught his attention: it was quiet other than the sounds of the tele. He looked back at the bed where Marik's form lay still, illuminated by the light from the screen. He seemed at peace.

With a smile, thinking he may actually sleep well for once, he turned off the television and laid back down. Not an hour later, Marik was restless once more. Bakura grumbled, irritated at the disturbance, and when the boy didn't calm down, he resigned to wakefulness and turned the screen on once more. He was engrossed in some program when he realised once again, Marik had gone still.

It took him a while to string it together, but it made sense. After being raised in the dark and quiet, Marik had developed an aversion to it. Even his subconscious shied away from it.

From that night on, Bakura would pretend to fall asleep to the television, though he could never get his eyes fully closed until he was sure Marik was fast asleep.

**::*~~*::**

Bakura had been careful at first, trying to keep under wraps that he was still thieving. While on the plane to France, Marik had told him everything that had happened after his return to Egypt. He had started work with his sister and brother, trying his best to live a normal life, and redeem himself in everyone's eyes. He didn't hide the disappointment that no one trusted him still, but he also didn't blame them.

Bakura thought him foolish for the attempt, especially when Marik was so steadfast about being a criminal before (for this, he was good at, it was only being a villain he had truly failed). He had to admit to himself his own disappointment was that he looked forward to joining forces with him again, but he kept quiet with all of his opinions on the subject.

He was pleasantly surprised a few days later when Marik handed him a set of beads meant for his hair that had finely painted cats on them. Though he didn't care much for the gift, he just smiled to himself, knowing that Marik had no money of his own (hence his constant begging for Bakura to get things), and there was only one more option where they came from. So thrilled with this revelation, he allowed Marik to brush his hair and put them in where he saw fit.

He also let the Egyptian play with his hair long after, laying his head in his lap as the tan fingers ran through the strands. Neither one spoke a long time, their few moments of silence a tenuous thing, the fear of ruining something so pleasant and making it awkward playing on both their minds.

"Why did it take you so long?"

Bakura growled, not appreciating this pleasantry ruined. "Why did what take so long?"

Marik made up for his disturbance by running his nails gently along Bakura's neck. "Coming to Egypt."

"You act like you were expecting me," he replied mockingly.

The youth was quiet for a moment, something about the words catching him off guard. He settled for pulling lightly at the hair at the base of his skull before moving back to his crown. Finally, he said in a low tone, "I wasn't expecting you. Even when Ryou told me you were back, I didn't expect you'd come."

Bakura turned a little bit, just enough that he could look up at Marik. "Ryou told you I was around?"

The Egyptian nodded, his fingers lingering at Bakura's jaw. "I don't know why he told me, like he was thinking it would matter." His voice was almost a whisper as he went on, "Like you were going to look for me."

Bakura just stared at him, quiet as their eyes met. He reached out his hand, and for a second he thought he was going to touch the youth, but stopped at the last moment, setting his arm done once more.

Marik looked almost disappointed by the lack of contact.

"It's better that I waited," he finally admitted.

"Was it now?" Marik asked indignantly.

"Look, Marik, if I came right after... everything, I don't think I'd be in such a 'buddy buddy' mood." He turned his gaze away, tilting his head into Marik's still hand. He got the hint, and resumed his petting. "If I was going to see you, I'd rather do it when I wasn't still so... very livid."

"Only slightly livid?" Marik teased, scratching right behind Bakura's ear.

The thief hold back the noise that threatened to leave his throat, sure he didn't want the youth to know how much he was enjoying this. "You still owe me."

"You keep saying that." Marik paused his ministrations to play with one of the beads. "But you never say what you want."

"When I think of something, you'll be the first to know," Bakura answered gruffly. He was already tired of the conversation, especially the emotions it brought up. He had no want to think about why he went to Egypt, why it was so important to find his former partner, and he certainly didn't want to give the real reason he waited so long. Because even after two years, he still didn't want to think about what kept drawing him to Marik.

They were silent once more, Marik just toying with the bead and Bakura staring off, trying to keep his mind off their words.

"Pup," Bakura broke the silence.

"Yes, kitty?" Marik returned.

"I didn't tell you to stop."

The youth chuckled as he began moving his fingers once more.

**::*~~*::**

Bakura wasn't exactly sure when things had gotten like this, but he couldn't bring himself to stop them, either. After the hair thing (petting, as Marik called it, thus justifying the plethora of cat nicknames that followed), the Egyptian was far more physical with him. He would slide his fingers through the white tuffs, lingering on Bakura's skin longer than necessary. When they arrived back at the hotel each night, Marik was always close by when they sat to watch television, his leg right up against his.

And he allowed it, all of it. He didn't reciprocate, not at first, but didn't make any notion to derail his ministrations. He just sank into the touch when Marik was playing with his hair (petting), fighting the urge to make any satisfactory noises. And when the Egyptian moved closer, nuzzling his neck, he just growled in annoyance, but did nothing to stop him.

The first time Bakura had any inclination to touch the youth other than shoving him away, was on a whim. It started with an argument about who would get the bed that evening, and just as their voices were at their loudest, Marik pulled him down to lay next to him. He growled at the Egyptian, but he just explained there was no reason they couldn't share the king sized mattress.

He growled, no want to share but no desire to sleep another night on the couch. He kicked the youth off the bed, but Marik was quick to jump on the white-haired male, pinning him down in what Bakura could only assume it was some attempt at control, like Marik had always been after. He just grinned and kneed him in the stomach, taking the upper hand, but only for a brief second before Marik was fighting him again.

The scuffle lasted for a good long while, time they could be sleeping, but neither noticed during their wrestling match, and the original reason for the fight was long forgotten by the time they finally gave themselves a break. Breathing heavily, Bakura rested on his side, glaring at the Egyptian.

"We're done playing now," he huffed, pushing at him once more, nudging him to the edge of the bed. "Get off."

Marik just laughed at him, his grin never wavering. "What, can't keep up with me? Those three thousand years finally catching up to you?"

Bakura closed his eyes, tucking in as he replied gruffly, "I'm tired, pup. Get to the couch so I can get some sleep." They had been all over the city, to the Notre Dame and Champs-Elysees, and all of it on foot, leaving the older male rather exhausted. They had only a few days left, and even more to do, and he would much rather be well rested for it.

There was a moment of quiet other than a bit of rustling, and for a second, Bakura thought Marik for once might comply. That wasn't the case, his eyes snapping open when a light touch glanced his cheek, just over his scar. He narrowed his gaze at the Egyptian, hoping the stern look would be enough to get rid of the nuisance.

Marik wasn't feeling so cooperative, as usual.

"What are you doing?"

Marik's eyes were emotionless as he starred into Bakura's. "Did it hurt?"

"Of course it did," he almost snarled in response.

"How did you get it?"

Bakura noticed with some agitation that Marik's hand was still on his face, his thumb tracing the edges of the scar. Or maybe it irritated him more that he had placed a hand on the boy's hip, though he could not remember when he'd done it. He wanted Marik to say something, to stop him, but the Egyptian's eyes were too focused and his curiosity still unquenched.

"From before," was Bakura's only response. His hand was wandering, his fingers moving up to Marik's exposed side. The youth always wore such revealing things, even to bed. It left plenty of tan area for him to touch that was essentially being offered to him.

"Yeah, I got it was from before, but..." Marik's voice caught in his throat at one particular swipe of his side, and Bakura could see a light dusting of colour on his cheeks before he buried his face in the pillow. He said something more, but it was muffled by the down.

"What was that?" Bakura asked, a bemused smile on his lips.

Marik turned his head only enough that he could be heard: "Stop that."

"What?" the thief asked in feigned innocence. He moved his hand once more, snickering at the way he shuddered under the light touch. "Are you ticklish, Ishtar?"

"No, not..." But Marik made no move to stop him, even as his murmur turned into a light mewl. His hand fell from Bakura's face, landing in the space between their bodies.

Bakura's grin turned something wicked. He continued moving his fingers, his touch becoming only the bit harder. He slowly crept up, watching Marik's face intently (as much as could, most of it hidden by the pillow) as he let his hand wander just inside the thin shirt to feel his ribcage. Marik made no motion to stop him, though, and when a barely concealed moan left his lips instead of a giggle, he knew he wasn't tickling him.

"You _like_ this, don't you?" The question came out almost as a purr, a sadistic gleam in his brown eyes. He had subconsciously scooted closer, their bodies only inches apart now.

"Fuck you," Marik grumbled. Despite his words, he was moving into Bakura's touch. "You like being petted," he defended weakly.

"Most people like their hair played with," the thief retorted, not really agreeing or disagreeing. "But not many like this, or, hmm, I'm curious..."

"Curious about what?" Marik had turned his head to fully look at Bakura, trying his best to keep a straight face even as his strokes become firmer and turned into light scratches. His hand moved to the front of his body, scratching in a circular motion over his tanned stomach.

The noise Marik made was something between a hiss and groan, and Bakura didn't think he had heard a more beautiful of sound. "You really are like a dog," he commented, his fingers scratching more playfully at his abs. "I'm expecting you to start kicking your leg at any moment..."

"Shut it, kitty," Marik quipped. "And just... just keep..."

He didn't have to finish the request as Bakura kept scratching and rubbing, trading between his stomach and side. In return, the Egyptian threaded tan fingers through white locks, sliding through Bakura's hair and gently pulling when he was near the scalp. Their bodies were even closer now, just barely enough for Bakura to reach his stomach.

It was quiet as they slowly moved, exploiting the others weakness. The same pattern started to dull Bakura, and his hand wandered from his side to the Egyptian's lower back, and slowly, so very slowly, he edged his way until he could feel raised flesh under his fingertips.

Bakura grunted when Marik's hand left his hair with a pull as he gripped the pale wrist.

Lavender eyes were on brown, a harsh glare to them. "Don't touch those," Marik growled.

Bakura only narrowed his eyes. "I'll touch them if I want to."

"Like fuck you will," Marik went on, his grip tightening on Bakura's wrist.

"I think I've earned a look at them, don't you?"

Marik just kept his eyes narrowed.

"Turn around," Bakura commanded.

"Listen, fluffy, I'm not-"

"_Now_."

At this, Marik visibly bristled, withdrawing his body in a mix of anger and disappointment.

Part of Bakura knew he was ruining a wonderful moment they were having. The other part of him didn't care: he wanted what he was owed.

Gently, Bakura gripped Marik's shoulder, pushing him lightly. The youth didn't budge at first, becoming almost statue like, but the thief fixed him with as soft a look he could muster. The Egyptian took a deep breath before he rolled onto his other side, baring his semi-clothed back to his pale friend.

Bakura did nothing at first, just staring, as he listened to Marik's rapid breathing. He reached a hand to settle on his side, continuing what he had done before until the Egyptian calmed down. With one last pause, Bakura lifted his thin shirt, just enough that the material hung at his shoulder blades.

He marvelled at the sight of Marik's marred back. The detail of each carved hieroglyph, perfect words that Bakura understood with brevity... The scars of his past, what had sent him down the dark road until he came to the crossroads they would come to meet.

Bakura wanted to hate everything about this mistreatment of someone that was once innocent, that could have remained so were it not for the pharaoh and his secret. He wanted to go back in time and watch Marik kill his father, knowing he'd have great enjoyment watching the bastard get what he deserved. He wanted to hate everything about his past, but he couldn't.

He couldn't, because without these scars, Marik would still be in Egypt, and he would be alone.

Bakura hadn't noticed immediately that his fingers had moved to trace the symbols, not until Marik's rigid form had started to relax. Without any words, he wrapped his arms around the lithe body, pulling their forms flush against one another. Marik stiffened for only a moment before he settled into Bakura's hold.

"Was that good enough?" Marik asked, his voice distant.

Bakura buried his face in the nape of his neck, inhaling the exotic scent that was distinctly his. "It'll do for now." He gave him a squeeze, rolling over for just long enough to turn off the bedside table before returning to Marik.

"Get some sleep."

Marik just nodded, nuzzling the arm around him, and being lulled to sleep by Bakura's fingers softly playing with his side, until he, too, succumbed to dreaming.

It wasn't more than an hour later that Bakura was woken by shuffling in the bed next to him. When he opened his eyes, he noticed that Marik had detached himself, his sleep restless as it had been before. With a groan, he left the comfort of the bed, taking the few steps to the living area of the suite, and taking the remote to turn on the television. He spent a brief moment to adjust the volume to something manageable.

He set down the remote, his eyes trailing from the couch to the figure on the bed and back again. For a moment, he thought of just laying down there, not returning to the youth whose restlessness was calming down with the light and sound from the television. Because getting back under the covers with Marik meant something, he knew, much more than what had happened earlier. Before, he was caught up in the moment, could blame it on proximity and the intoxicating presence that the Egyptian always exuded. Going back, though, that meant there was something more, something not entirely physical.

"...Bakura...?"

The white-haired male chanced a look at the Egyptian who had sat up just a bit. The tan face was illuminated in the screen's light, the edges of sleep in the corners of his eyes. His gaze was questioning, and Bakura felt himself falter.

"Guess I got used to it," he offered, scratching the back of his neck uncertainly.

Marik only stared at him, lavender eyes unsure. "Oh." He gave Bakura another glance, and it was obvious that wasn't really the inquiry he was making.

With a sigh, the thief knew he couldn't get away with not returning to the bed, not without making things awkward in the morning. There was a part of him that knew he was inevitably going to ignore the couch for the comfort of the mattress, but it wasn't anything he was willing to voice to himself at the moment, and certainly not to Marik.

He didn't say anything else as he climbed under the covers once more, this time pointedly turning his back to the Egyptian. He grumbled something about getting back to sleep, but it was barely audible against the pillow. He didn't flinch when he felt Marik's smaller body press up against his back, hands lightly touching him as his face tucked in between his shoulder blades.

Bakura just closed his eyes, letting slumber overcome him once more.

**::*~~*::**

They went to the Eiffel Tower two nights before they were to leave. They had also visited it on one of the first days they'd arrived in France, but Marik was disappointed at its appearance during the daylight, and made a demand to come back to see it alight at night. Bakura agreed with him for once, but he still put up a show of begrudgingly agreeing when the Egyptian pulled him from the hotel room and out onto the Metro.

Marik was taken away by the luminance that the large structure gave off. They spent more time staring up at it from a nearby restaurant than actually being in it. That was fine by Bakura, though, as it was far more impressive on the outside than the inside. The only time it really interested him was at the top, when he could see all of the city below. Still, only so much of that could be considered entertaining, and he was ready to leave within moments of reaching the apex.

His companion, however, was still gripping the fencing, his lavender eyes excitedly looking at the cityscape below. He thought of leaving him there, just as some joke, to see the look on his face when he came back to the ground. He would be so livid, and it would probably start some pranking war between them.

But even as he was thinking of how to respond to the future disarray of his clothing drawer, he was stopped by the look of wonder on Marik's face. Out of all the places they had been to, this was the most absorbed he had been in his surroundings.

Bakura settled for standing next to him, trying to find whatever it was Marik was so intently focused on.

"I want to go there," the Egyptian commented, pointing out into the lights.

Bakura leaned in, trying to see where the youth was pointing. He bumped shoulders with him as he asked, "Where?"

"There," he said again, gesturing once more. He had a strange look on his face, something distant but content.

Bakura squinted, but all he could see was the grass of the local park. "I have no idea where you mean." He gave a sidelong glance at Marik whose eyes were still focused on whatever spot he was seeing. With a sigh, he conceded, "But I suppose we could dredge our way there, if you can still find it when we get down from here."

Marik narrowed his eyes, muttering something to himself as he traced the path in the air. "...I'll be able to find it."

Bakura rolled his eyes, knowing they would still probably get lost for a lengthy while. If they were lucky, they would find it with still time to get a good night's sleep, but he somehow doubted it. "Can we leave, then?"

"Just a few more minutes."

Bakura sighed again, but said nothing else. He tried looking out over the city, anything to keep him entertained while he waited, but his eyes drifted to the Egyptian. The tanned youth was leaning into the fence, his face almost flattened against the metal, his backside sticking out in that feminine way that was definitely him. For once he was wearing a full shirt, a thin cerulean button down that was tight on his lithe form, and was most distinctly a woman's blouse.

He had to scoff: Marik always found a way to be 'stylish,' where he was certainly casual in everything he wore. The most he had was a fitted hoodie with an obscene amount of pockets on it and decorated with stylized hieroglyphs. Marik had found it the other day on the Champs-Elysees, and refused to leave the store until Bakura bought it (with money he stole from the previous store, but still).

Bakura watched him for another moment, admiring the look of excitement on the youth's face. Before he could stop himself, his hand was winding around his back, gently pulling him into his side. Marik glanced up at him, his expression one of confusion, but the white-haired man just shrugged, not offering any reasoning.

Marik grinned, leaning a bit into Bakura's hold. "It seems even the most heartless of people get affected by this city." The tone was mocking, but his smile was pleasant.

"Shut it," Bakura replied, digging the pads of his fingers into Marik's hip for emphasis.

The Egyptian chuckled but said nothing more, spending just another minute staring at the sky before pulling Bakura away and toward the elevator. They were by themselves, much as they had been the entire time on the tower, the time between summer and autumn not as popular for tourists. It suited them both fine: less people for Bakura to be inhospitable with and more people for Marik to torture with his mindless chattering without discrimination.

As they waited to get to the bottom floor, Marik leaned into Bakura's side, trying to be as casual as possible about the action. Bakura made some annoyed grunt, but still wrapped his arm around Marik's backside, lingering on his hip.

"Venice," was the first thing Marik said since stepping onto the lift.

Bakura raised a brow. "Venice?"

"It would be nice this time of year," he went on, tilting his head up just a bit to nuzzle the underside of his chin.

The white-haired growled his annoyance, but didn't push Marik away. "And what makes you think I'd agree to Venice, hmm, pup?"

Marik shrugged. "I just wanted to see if another city of romance has this affect on you."

With a groan, Bakura shoved the Egyptian away. Marik laughed hardily at him, tucking himself in the opposite corner of the elevator, grinning wickedly at his pale friend. Bakura just crossed his arms, keeping his eyes downcast and ignoring the pink tinge on his cheeks.

Just as Bakura had predicted, Marik had no idea where they were going when he got on the ground. They spent a good part of an hour searching the parks for whatever the Egyptian was so intent on. Bakura grumbled about returning to the hotel, but Marik was far from ready to give up the quest.

Finally, he stopped outside a gate that came only to their waists. He said nothing, only gave a noise of glee as he jumped it and ran off. Bakura was slow to follow, taking his time to actually find where it sung up and entire properly. He was only three steps in when he realised where they were.

A playground. Marik had brought them to a playground.

"Marik, what the hell are we doing here?" he asked, just barely making out the tan youth as he jumped up on some monkey bars.

"What's it look like, kitty?" Marik quipped, jumping down and running toward the slide.

"It looks like you're playing around." He didn't even try to hide his annoyance at this little detour.

Marik made a go at the slide, not answering until he was at the bottom. "That's what you do on playgrounds, yes."

Bakura just rolled his eyes, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He took one long inhale, watching his friend all the while. Marik's youth was certainly showing with the boundless energy he had as he moved between all the playground equipment. He moved to sit on one of the swings and got through three of his pack before the Egyptian slowed some, his feet just barely pushing him on the roundabout.

"There was something like this, back in the tomb," Marik said, his voice soft. Bakura had to strain to hear him, taking a subconscious step toward the youth. "Rishid took one of the reflecting discs, would spin me around, man, Ishizu was pissed when she found out..."

Marik went on, describing more of his childhood, and Bakura listened, engrossed in the words as realisation sank in. He had known the boy's past was one of hardship and reclusion, but it had never occurred to him that nothing about his childhood was usual. Even after his city burned down, the thief still had moments of play, mostly with other orphaned children. They didn't have any proper equipment, not like this modern age, but they still had plenty of fun.

Marik had nothing like that. What fun he would have found would be whatever his siblings could concoct, and from the sound of it, that wasn't too often. That figured, though: their father was not really a man of games and playtime.

Bakura's annoyance had softened to simply watching the Egyptian, his expression fascinated with everything the park had to offer, even after running out of steam. They had seen some many things in their time in France, not just the marvels of Paris, but they had wandered a bit outside the city for more sight-seeing, and for all the times Marik had looked enthralled, it was nothing on this. This was rapture for him, something simple, something different, something... truly free.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't the least bit jealous. Though he'd be out in the world, exploring everything the earth had to offer, reclaiming his title as thief king ever so slowly, but he had been missing something. For the longest time, he just assumed it was the driving force of his revenge that was absent. It had been leading him forth for so long, it had been almost awkward waking up in the morning and having to remember the day didn't revolve around defeating the pharaoh. But that had faded almost months ago, but whatever was gone still glaringly so.

He didn't contemplate how much that hole had filled in over the past couple of weeks.

Bakura was stirred from his reverie as Marik sat hard in the swing next to him. He looked up at the Egyptian, his fourth cigarette almost to the filter, and he noticed the odd smile that still lingered on the sand-dried lips. They regarded each other for a long moment, and the thief couldn't help the sides of his lips creeping up to much Marik's contentment.

As always, one of them had to break the peace as Marik shouted, "Bet I can swing higher!"

"What? Where the fuck did that-"

But Marik was already swaying his legs, trying to pump as fast as he could, his swing not exactly straight as he climbed in height. A grin split Bakura's face, knowing his clear advantage, as he began to catch up with the youth. Though Marik had the spunk and want, but it was easy to tell he had only watched a swingset in use on movies or programs. Bakura, though not exactly having been on one himself, Ryou had a fondness for them, even in his teenage years, as it cleared his head and allowed him to plot his games.

It didn't seem to matter who actually got higher, Marik was just enjoying the motion. He laughed as his hair wiped around his face, and for a moment, Bakura couldn't keep his eyes off him. He didn't know he was slowly decreasing in speed and height, until he was effectively stopped. The tanned boy just kept going, no notice that he had certainly won whatever competition they had engaged in. Not until a pale hand grabbed at the chain, and he yelped as he was thrown of course, trying desperately to just get control of his swing.

"Fluffy, what the fuck was that for?" Marik spat when he was finally stopped, his swing resting next to Bakura's, kept close by the fingers still gripping the chain.

Bakura's eyes were hard on his, his movements quick as he cupped the tan face with his free hand, moving in to skim his lips against Marik's. It was fast and soft, something he needed to desperately get out of his system after everything had been piling up since he'd gone to Egypt to claim the youth. As he parted his lips from the dry ones, he let out a sigh, and a weight he hadn't even known he was carrying was lifted.

Bakura let go of the chain, letting Marik's body swing away from him. The boy's eyes were wide, lavender staring into brown, searching. When neither spoke, Bakura sneered, Marik's lack of reaction disappointing to say the least. With a growl, he stood, taking a step to leave, but he was stopped by a hand grabbing onto his wrist.

He was pulled back around to face those intense eyes staring at him, and Bakura wasn't sure how to describe the look he gave. It was somewhere near relief with an edge of a snarl to it. "The fuck you're just going to walk away."

With that, he pulled Bakura down to him, crashing their lips together in an awkward kiss that was mostly teeth. Bakura had to grip onto the chains of Marik's swing to keep from falling, just barely balancing himself so he didn't tumble into the Egyptian. They broke apart for a moment, just to get a better start, coming back together at a better again. Bakura cupped his face, tilting his head just enough that their noses didn't bump. The only thing awkward was the difference in height where Marik was sitting and he was standing.

Finally, they separated once more, their breaths slightly ragged. Bakura just stared down at him, his thumb tracing his cheek. He leaned down just a bit, resting his forehead against Marik's. The Egyptian let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes as he felt Bakura's warm breath across his face.

"Still not going to Venice," Bakura said, smirking.

Marik returned with a grin, "Mm, then you get to cancel the plane tickets."

"Gods, damnit, pup!"


End file.
